


Aquamarine

by KillerKueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillerKueen/pseuds/KillerKueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had always known the difference between the ones who left and the ones who stayed. Belle French was someone else entirely. Or, the one where Gold owns a dive bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aquamarine

She is going 80 on the interstate. Despite the high speed and the crisp early spring air the window of her car is rolled down halfway, and the gusts blowing her hair around her face unflatteringly.

She catches her reflection in the rearview mirror (adjusted so she could fix her lipstick at the last gas station) and is surprised to see a smile on the edges of her lips. She can't be bothered to repress it.

Her father always told her that the best cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea. Well, she's run herself ragged, and she's tired of crying. This leaves only one option: a quiet town off the coast of Maine known for its fishing boats and cargo, someplace where she can slip inside like a rumor, a rain drop, a ghost, and settle like the clear surface of a lake.

Her father always did know best. 

Storybrooke, here she comes.

 

~~~~~

 

From the minute she first entered the bar, he could tell right away she didn’t belong there. She was a woman, for starters, and his joint wasn’t a place that attracted that particular crowd (never really had, much to his ex-wife’s distaste. Then again, she probably hadn't lamented the lack of competition). Her sundress was too neat, the material pressed and clean and the colors damn near cheerful. Her purse, while not ridiculously expensive, certainly couldn’t be considered cheap. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, curly and dark brown. She was certainly a pretty thing, stunning really, with round cheeks and a wide smile.

She looked around the dive curiously as she made her way to where he was behind the bar. He watched carefully, looking for any form of disapproval or distaste. He couldn't find it.

“Could I have iced tea, please?” She asked when she had reached him. Her accent was light and definitely not local. “No ice.”

“New in town, dearie?” Gold asked.

She shrugged, appraising the carving of the topless mermaid that hung above the countless bottles behind him. The paint was chipped and faded and the wood splintered with age. Gold could swear on a month’s profit that the painted tits had been what had drawn in most of his customers in the early days of his business.

“There’s a diner a couple of blocks down the road,” he waved his hand vaguely in a general direction. “Offers a great iced tea, or so I’ve heard.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, and he’d be damned if she didn’t have the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. “Are you trying to tell me something?” She frowned disapprovingly, but her eyes held her smile, giving away her amusement.

It was Gold’s turn to shrug. “You just don’t seem the type for this place, is all.” A woman like that didn’t fit under the faulty lighting, which from above bathed the grimy floorboards in dark light. It made the floor look dirtier than it was (some parts were sticky from spilt beer, and no matter how many times the floor was mopped, the boards would still cling to the bottom of some poor sod’s boot). He couldn’t remember the last time he cleaned the windows, and he just couldn’t bring himself to even think about the bathrooms. But the glasses he served his drinks in were spotless. He took great pride in that.

She snorted. “And what is my type, exactly?” She raised an eyebrow, looking at him expectantly.

“Far too posh to be in this place, for starters.”

“Posh?” The woman smiled and suppressed a laugh. “What are you, a flapper?”

Gold sneered. “Iced tea, you said?”

Still smiling, she nodded. “No ice.”

"I don't sell iced tea."

That made her pause, a smile still lingering, as if it were a joke. "What do you make Long Islands out of, then?"

He replied, flatly, and only a little condescendingly, "There is no iced tea in a Long Island; there’s gin, vodka, tequila and rum."

“Well, I would not like one of those,” she said decisively and only a little bit bashful.

"Want directions to the diner, dearie?"

"Just because I don't know much about mixed drinks doesn't mean I don't want to be in a bar,” she said primly. “A ginger ale, please."

"No ice?" 

"You learn quickly." She paid for her drink and with a wink took it to an empty table farthest from the door. She pulled a book from her purse and settled in to read, occasionally sipping at her soda.

She must be a tourist, he decided, although Storybrooke didn’t exactly draw in that sort of crowd. Chances were, she’d be here that week, gone the next. His wife had had wanderlust, too. It was best not to get involved with those that did. The need for adventure always outweighed the need for responsibility and stability. The need for someone else.

He tried not to watch the woman as he worked. A couple men attempted to strike up a conversation, to maybe buy her a drink, but she declined, preferring to just huddle there in her corner and read.

She stayed until last call.

 

~~~~~

 

It was a week and a half before Gold saw her again. She opened the old wooden door just after the sun went down, a loose windbreaker hanging off her figure, her sundress swishing about her knees. Drops of water glittered like silver in the light, proof of the beginning of a storm that was rolling in from the ocean.

“You wouldn’t happen to have tea, would you?” She asked when she reached him.

"Seems we've had this conversation before, dearie."

She rolled her eyes. "Hot tea? I'm sure even you know the various kinds of those."

“I’m not sure if you noticed, but this is a bar.” He said dryly. “If you want tea, go to Granny’s. I don’t sell it here.”

She made a face, and he couldn’t help but think it probably took a considerable amount of control on her part not to stick her tongue out at him.

“Do you have anything hot? I’ll settle for coffee.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have coffee.”

“What bar doesn’t have coffee?” She asked incredulously. “Surely you have something for people who don’t want to drink.”

“I had coffee once but it didn’t move, and I can't keep something stocked if it doesn't move.” Gold pointed at her when she opened her mouth to protest. “The only person coming in here who doesn’t want to drink, dearie, is you.”

The woman frowned, but looked around at the patrons. He wondered what she saw, and if she was seeing anything different from the first time she walked in. All he saw were the same sad faces, the same poor old sailors who were too drunk to work and so came in for a drink and a sliver of companionship.

“As for something hot,” he said, taking pity when the frown remained fixed, “I would be willing to whip you up a Hot Toddy.”

She turned back to him, her blue eyes deep and involuntarily curious. “A Hot Toddy being…?”

“Oh, it’s just a mix of hot water, whiskey, sugar and a little bit of lemon. Warm you right up.” He smiled crookedly, flashing his gold tooth.

“I’ll settle for Sprite, thanks. The only sugar and lemon I need.”

He raised his eyebrow, more amused than he was willing to admit.

She paid for her drink, gave him a sunny smile despite her annoyance, and then went to sit at the same table as last time. She pulled out what looked to be paperwork, and sat quietly in her corner until she left as conspicuously as she arrived.

 

~~~~~

 

She was sitting at the end of the bar, book in hand and drinking coke. Well, drinking being the operative word. She hadn’t taken so much as a sip she was so enthralled in her book.

For two months, that slip of a woman had come into his dive at least twice a week, ordering a drink and staying until close. She never did anything more significant than sit in a secluded corner or (Gold imagined, if she was feeling particularly courageous) at the bar and read. Why did she keep coming?

It wasn’t until she answered him that he realized he had asked the question out loud.

“It’s a nice place to be,” she said, glancing at him over the top of her book. “No one bothers me.” She looked at Gold pointedly, but there was no real annoyance in her gaze.

“I’m sure no one would bother you at Granny’s, either.”

“I like bars,” she said idly, turning a page. 

“They have a bar.” She raised her eyebrows. “Mostly,” he amended. “Sort of.”

“Unless you disapprove of my business, Mr….”

“Gold," he supplied.

“Gold,” she said, trying it out. “I don’t quite understand why you care.”

He snorted. “I guess I’m just curious as to why you decide to come to my bar, and no one else’s.”

“And who says I don’t, Mr. Gold?” she asked, having already turned back to her book. “I’m not in here every night.”

“Do you?” It didn’t matter to him if she did. Although truth be told, there weren’t many other options for nightlife in town. There was the Rabbit Hole, a bar even sleazier then his (their glasses weren’t clean) and as for the lowlifes who frequented, well, calling them ‘clientele’ was akin to calling sewer water ‘fine wine.’ He hoped she hadn’t set foot in there, for her own sake.

“Hm?” she looked up from her spot, as if she’d already forgotten about the conversation. 

“Go to any other bars?”

She looked at him solicitously, closing the book on her finger and giving him her undivided attention. “Aquamarine.”

That caught Gold off guard. “I don’t follow." 

“The name of your bar. Aquamarine.” She explained as if he were a half-wit.

“And?”

Unbothered by his tone, she explained. “It’s also a name of a story my mother used to read me. It was about a mermaid,” her eyes flickered to the topless mermaid he had hanging above his bar.

It took Gold a minute to understand her train of thought. “Nostalgia?” he asked. “That’s why you come in here?”

She shrugged. “People have been known to do far crazier things for less.” She opened her book again, searching for her spot. “I like to think she’d have liked this place of yours.”

Gold rolled his eyes. “A name is hardly a reason, dear.”

She sighed, snapping the book closed again and leaned as far over the bar as she could without standing up, looking Gold right in the eye. “The sand from the beach is practically spilling over your threshold, and I bet no matter how many times you sweep, you can’t push it back. She’d have loved that. She’d have loved the fishing nets you have over the windows, and the seashells and starfish in the sills, no matter how dusty they get.” She gestured to the bar behind him. “She’d have loved your decorative bottles that have to be at least fifty years old, and even your charming mermaid up there. And the best part? The Aquamarine is so close to the ocean,” she murmured, “I can smell the waves with the windows closed.”

The man smiled wolfishly, his gold tooth flashing. Holding her gaze, he leaned closer himself, their noses almost bumping. Lowering his voice to a purr, he said, “I’m pretty sure that’s just the bathroom.”

The woman’s lips twitched as she scooted back. “You’re a rather unpleasant individual,” she said. He could see the spark of a challenge deep in her steel blue eyes. “Don’t you have other customers to terrorize?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “She fall in love with a human, then? This mermaid of yours?" 

She blinked, surprised by the change in topic. “Yes.” She leaned back on her bar stool. “How’d you know?”

If he hadn't known better, he’d call that sarcasm. “You hear one story, you’ve heard them all.” He folded his arms on the bar. “I bet she turns into sea foam at the end. Or dies in some other unseemly way, all for the love of her human.”

The woman smiled as she opened up her book again. She absently ran her fingers along the open spine as she regarded him. He couldn’t make out the cover. “You clearly need to read more stories, Mr. Gold.”

 

~~~~~

 

Gold grumbled as he opened another case of bottled beer. It was going to rain today, and that alone was hell on his ankle, but pair that with the restocking he had to do (the moving of heavy boxes, the unloading of beer bottles), and it left his poor joint feeling like it had faced a meat grinder and lost (he already had the scars to prove it). It was hard enough to get around with his damn leg when the weather was temperate, let alone when it rained. Today just had to be the day Dove had off.

And on top of it all, he was out of bourbon. Bloody hell, Victor wasn’t going to be happy. The idiot doctor drank it like water, and Gold cursed himself for forgetting to order more from his supplier. With how long it would take to set everything up for tonight, there wouldn’t be time to run to the liquor store.

He shook his head. Victor could live a few nights without it. He could buy it himself, if he wanted.

Gold heard the front door swing open, and then slam firmly shut. He swore under his breath; the lock was jammed again.

Grabbing his cane from the floor, Gold brushed aside the dividing curtain and limped out to the front only to see the woman, the Reader, staring at the door like she broke it. She looked over her shoulder when she heard the tapping of his cane and said, rather guiltily, “I didn’t mean to shut it so hard. The wind took it right out of my hand.”

“I’m closed, dear.” He called, not bothering to answer her. “I’ll open in a couple hours.”

She looked at him incredulously. “But it’s three o’clock.” Her head swiveled around the empty space. Her brow knitted as she took in the vacant seats.

“Who wants a drink in the middle of the afternoon? It’s not conducive to good business.” He turned to go back to restocking. He had a long way to go if he was going to have everything ready by night.

“What if someone wants lunch?”

“Aside from peanuts and chips, I don’t serve food.”

She stared at him blankly. “What kind of bar-“

He huffed in annoyance. “Listen, dearie, if you want food-“

“Go to Granny’s, I know.” She waved her arm dismissively, the sleeve of her sweatshirt sliding down her slender forearm. He had never seen her in a sweatshirt before. Come to think of it, he had never seen her in anything less casual than a simple blouse and sandals.

“I thought you would have noticed that in all the time you’ve spent here.”

“What can I say?” she shrugged, hardly bothered. “I know now, right?”

The sweater she was wearing was checker patterned; a soft blue and grey material that almost hid a dark pair of cut-off shorts entirely. Her flip flopped feet were caked in sand.

“Not your usual garb for bar hopping, dear,” Gold commented.

The woman flushed. “I wasn’t planning on coming today, no,” she admitted. “I was walking the beach, when suddenly the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. You’re closer than my apartment by far, so I figured I’d come here. But alas!” She sighed dramatically, draping her arm over her brow. “The Aquamarine has closed its doors to patrons. Whatever shall I do?”

He snorted. “You can help me stock, is what.”

That brought her up short. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t want to be stuck walking back in this weather?” She shook her head. “Then earn your keep.” He brushed aside the curtain that bared the back room. “Well, come on,” he snapped.

He heard her feet pad across the floor after him as he entered the back. There was a small table tucked away in the corner, the top mostly hidden by bank statements and bills and accompanied by three wooden chairs. There was a small fridge next to a small stove, and above that there were shelves that contained miscellaneous food items and dishes. The rest of the space was filled with booze, or cases thereof.

Belle took a look around the cramped kitchen. “Do you live above the bar, then?” She asked. “I’d always wondered. Those stairs tucked in the corner, you know?”

Oh, he knew. Gold’s ex-wife installed the railing so he had something to lean on when he climbed them after his accident. He made sure to tighten the screws himself, though.

Gold grunted an affirmative, than reached for the whiskey. “Here,” he said, taking three bottles of Jack Daniels from the shelf and shoving them into her arms. “Put these behind the others out there.”

“Roger that.”

He could hear the first drops of rain starting to fall on the roof.

He reached for a case of Guinness, moving it to the table for easier access. “There’s a fridge under the bar,” he said when he heard her reenter. “Put as many of these in there that will fit.”

She nodded to the other boxes. “The Buds and Millers, too?” She asked as she hefted the crate in her arms.

Gold shook his head. “They don’t need stocked.”

“Right.”

A loud _CRACK_ whipped across the empty spaces of the sky, breaking it in two as the rain started falling in earnest. Gold jerked, nearly stumbling over his cane.

The woman reached out to help steady him as best she could around the crate of beer she was cradling in her arms. “You know, I never noticed you had a cane,” she mused, “You move so well without it.”

That wasn’t entirely true, not that he’d point it out. He could use the bar for support when he was working; trying to barkeep with a cane in hand didn’t work very well.

He smacked her hand away, biting back a curse. “Do your job,” he snapped. “The faster we get this done, the faster we can sit down and have a nice, warm cup of tea, hm?” He said, his voice barely above a growl and making his words sound more like a threat than an invitation.

She looked at him accusingly. “You said you didn’t have tea.”

“I never said I didn’t have it, lady,” he said. “I only said I didn’t sell it _._ ”

“My name is _Belle_ ,” She pursed her lips and scowled. Then her brow furrowed. “I’ve never actually introduced myself, have I?” With a grunt, she shifted the crate again so she could hold out a hand. “I’m Belle French. It’s nice to officially meet you, Mr. Gold.”

Belle, he thought. She’d been nameless for so long that he almost found himself denying she had a name. It was pretty, nonetheless, and certainly suited her well enough.

“Charmed.” He shook her outstretched hand briefly, the skin soft and warm against his. “Now go before you drop my merchandise. You break it, you buy it.”

While she was out front, he tried getting the next crate ready for restocking, his ankle protesting the movement.

“I could fit all but three. Any place you want to put them?” she asked, reentering the back.

“Just set them on a counter for now.” Gold motioned vaguely towards the back door. “Pile the box over there. Someone will recycle them later." 

She looked at the boxes and crates that still had to be moved, the bottles still needing to be set up. They hadn’t even started on the sparse food, the bland peanuts and chips that had yet to be restocked. “How do you do this every day by yourself? We’ve barely started, and there’s still so much.”

“That is what it means to barely start, dearie,” he muttered, inspecting a bottle of vodka. “Not all this is going on the floor, though. My supplier delivers once a week with what I need until the next time he comes.” He moved a couple bottles of rum to the table for her to take. “Besides, I have a handy man who usually takes care of this. Tonight, as it happens, is his day off.”

Soon enough, everything was put away, the shelves full of spirits ready to be sold, and all they were left with was a promise of a hot drink.

“What kind of tea do you have?” she asked, rummaging around his shelf.

“The usual kind.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “Ah,” she said triumphantly. “Will earl gray do? Oh, you only have bags. Shame.” Without waiting for his answer, she pulled down two mugs, then filled his kettle with water and put it on to boil. After a brief moment of silence, she asked, “Is there a reason your kitchen is downstairs?”

"This _is_ a bar, Miss French." He said as if that explained everything, stretching his leg out on one of the chairs.

She rolled her eyes again. She was going to make herself dizzy, he thought idly. “Somehow I think we’ve long since established that.” She smiled, then, a little wistfully. “My dad owned his own shop back home. We lived above it, too, in a little apartment, and our kitchen was most definitely on the top floor.”

Gold made a noncommittal sound. “We used to serve food, once. Nothing good,” he was sure to add, “Just subpar burgers and fries.”

“We?” Belle asked curiously, wondering if he meant his handy man. The way he ignored her question had her thinking probably not.

“There was no room for a kitchen upstairs, anyway. Had to make room for a second bedroom.”

She nodded, waiting for him to elaborate, but when it became clear he had no interest in doing so, looked at her hands uncertainly; the pounding rain was the only sound between them.

She broke the near silence with a smile and a story. “It was a flower shop,” Belle said, staring at her feet as they traced the grain of the wooden floor. “I’d sit behind the counter after school, and I’d help at the register some days, taking orders, most times just cleaning if it was slow. I used to take the flowers we couldn’t sell – the ones with broken stems, or spots, or missing petals, or the ones that were just too old – and weave them into crowns for my hair. Sometimes I’d poke them through the straps of my overalls and buttonholes on my blouses, or even the laces of my shoes.”

“Oh?” Gold prompted, for want of anything better to say.

Belle nodded. “Seemed a waste, you know?” The kettle chose that moment to go off, and she turned to attend to it. “To have something as pretty as a flower and just throw it away over something as insignificant as a broken stem.”

“What was your favorite?” He asked when Belle remained silent, focused on pouring the water over the tea bags.

“Hm?”

“Flower. Did you have a favorite?” He nodded in thanks as she handed him a mug. The ceramic warmed his hands. “I bet you liked the roses.”

"I did. I do. Roses are so…" She leaned against the stove, mug encased inside her fingers. "Lovely. I didn't get them often because they just so happen to be rather expensive." She smiled over her tea. "My father thought roses were overrated and predictable. He preferred oak leaves."

“An oak leaf,” Gold deadpanned, “is not a flower.”

Belle ignored him. “Every year on my birthday, he would make me a bouquet with oak leaves. Sometimes he would add gerberas, or lilies, or forget-me-nots. Sometimes baby’s breath. Or peach blossoms.” She smiled then, wistfully, if a little sadly. “He always wanted to have a peach tree.”

“He ever get one?” Gold asked.

Belle’s eyebrows drew together in a not-quite frown. “No, but every year after he died, I used to place a bouquet of oak leaves and peach blossoms on his grave.” 

He nodded. “Came pretty close, then.”

Belle could only nod back.

"How long has he been gone?" It wasn't any of his business, he knew, and he was prying, but she was the one who brought it up in the first place.

"It's been six years, now."

He frowned. “Have you been drifting place to place since?" 

“Well, not exactly.” There was a blush that colored her cheeks, a light splotchy red that was quite fetching. She coughed self-consciously. “I used to work in the library at the local community college, but I quit that about a year ago. Lately, I’ve been living off the money that he left me. Before I had just put it away. I didn't like to think about it, let alone spend it. It would be like accepting he was gone, you know? I wasn't ready for that.”

She clutched the mug in her hands as if she were attempting to catch the steam that was rising from the tea. As if doing so would give her the answers she never managed to find.

“There's still some money left but not enough to last too much longer. I think I’m going to settle here, though. I like this town,” she said taking a sip of her tea.

Gold couldn’t quite muffle his derisive snort.

“I like your bar, too,” she said sternly.

“A bar isn’t a reason to stay, Miss French.” He knew that better than anyone.

"Belle, please." She said, smiling. “And I know people have done far crazier things for less.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. 

They let a companionable silence settle around them, neither making a sound – Gold at his table, Belle leaning with her back against a still-warm burner – as the rain continued to fall.

 

~~~~~

 

A week later found Gold in an empty bar in the middle of the afternoon, someone knocking on his back door.

He wasn’t surprised to find Belle on the other side.

“The front door was locked, and I don’t think you heard me knocking.” She said shrugging.

“I was ignoring it, actually.”

That made her smile. “Or you were ignoring it. Well, since you’re finally acknowledging me, I was wondering if you could use an extra hand today?” 

“It seems you aren’t in need of any shelter from the rain.”

 “I was actually hoping to be paid in tea and companionship.”

“Well, I can offer you tea.”

That got a startled laugh out of her. “I happen to like spending time with you.”

“God knows why.” In truth, he really didn’t need her help today. Business had been slow that week, as a ship had shoved off and swept up most of the sailors in town to sea. “Come inside." 

As it was, restocking went by slowly, even if Belle had some idea of what she was doing.

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly, instead of placing bottles on the shelves while he checked glasses.

His eyebrows cinched together. “I’ve already told you.”

“Have you?” genuine surprise flashed across her face.

“Sure. It’s Gold, dearie.”

She pulled a face. She hated it when he called her that. He knew it, too. “Your first name.”

He snorted. “I don’t have a first name.”

“Everyone has a first name.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmmhm. Sure.” She looked at him critically. “Is it Robert? You look like a Robert.” 

“Nope.” He plucked a glass from the rack, checking for spots. His dishwasher was on its way out. Fantastic.

“Andrew?”

“No.” 

“Noah?”

“No.”

“Christopher,” she said with more force than was necessary. 

He snorted.

 "Troy.”

“No.” 

“Francis.”

Gold raised his eyebrows. Belle, for her part, threw her arms in the air. “You are an insanely difficult man sometimes. Would you even tell me if I guessed it?”

“You’ll just have to find out, dearie,” he said with a smirk.

 

~~~~~

 

“Have you found a job yet?” He asked the next week.

“A job?” Belle repeated. She had been reading the label on a Smirnoff bottle.

“I would think you need one if you wanted to settle here permanently.”

“Something like that, I’m sure. My father’s money won’t last forever.” She put down the bottle. “I was thinking of applying at the library.”

“You do love your books.” And didn’t she say she had worked in a library before?

“I’m flattered you noticed.” She pulled down another bottle of Smirnoff. “Just the two?” She asked gesturing.

“One will do, I think. I can’t imagine you’ll have much time for bar hopping if you get a job.” Gold said in a carefully careless tone. “Imbibing in excess is frowned upon when working with the public, after all.”

Belle snorted. “You’re worried about me overdoing it now?”

“I’m just thinking of the children,” Gold said with a shrug. 

That surprised a laugh out of her. “I don’t drink, and you know it, Mr. Gold.”

He smiled as she stepped behind the curtain to the bar.

“I’ve been thinking of hiring someone else to help keep things in order.” He said abruptly when she reappeared. “Help me close a few nights a week, help me stock when Dove has off." 

She paused, studying him. “You’re offering me a job?”

“You’re here anyway, aren’t you?” He fiddled with his cane in his hands. “You’re doing the work. I might as well pay you for it.”

“You already pay me in tea.”

“Tea won’t pay your rent, dear.”

“I can’t deny you have a point.” She bit her lip, considering.

“Close Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday, stock Sunday. Every other Friday off.”

She hummed, tilting her head. Gold knew he should feel foolish for wanting this as badly as he did. As it was, he was holding his breath even as he fought to keep a look of nonchalance on his face.

“Mr. Gold,” she said finally, “you have yourself a deal.”

He released his breath, and his smile wavered. “Good. Good thing.”

~~~~~

 

She was sitting at the bar pretending to read her book. He knew she was pretending to read, because she hadn’t turned a page in the past twenty minutes.

“I heard you were married once,” she said conversationally when he refilled her drink. Pepsi. No ice.

Gold bristled. “Who told you that?”

 She shrugged. “People talk. I don’t spend every waking hour here, you know.”

“Mm,” he agreed noncommittally.

“They say she was very pretty,” Belle offered softly, probably wondering if that was the right thing to say. It wasn’t.

“Too pretty for me, they mean,” he growled. 

“Hush,” she scolded. “That’s not what I meant and you know it _._ What was she like?” Belle asked.

Gold snorted. “She was a succubus.”

Belle pursed her lips. “If you don’t want to talk about it – “ 

“No, quite frankly, I don’t.” He wondered what else she had heard about his past. He was surprised she cared at all: he wanted to forget about Milah with such a ferocious passion it bordered on blind desperation. Why was Belle, of all people, interested in knowing about _her_?

“She’s part of you, I guess,” she said with a shrug when he asked. “She’s part of your past, at least.”

“A part I’d rather not think about,” he said grudgingly. 

“Were you happy?” she probed gently. “At all?”

“Sure,” he sneered. “I was downright giddy when she left.”

Belle took a deep breath, as if he were trying her patience. “Mr. Gold, I only – “

“It’s best not to dig, dearie,” he said, sneer still fixed in place. “You start digging and you don’t stop.” He shook his head, moving away. “Even worse, you won’t like what you uncover.”

He left Belle at her end of the bar to wonder about an unhappy marriage with even unhappier results, and wondered privately if the new ache that settled in his bones was for her or for him.

 

~~~~~

 

“Is it Mark?”

“No.” 

“Is it David?”

“No.”

“Keith?" 

“God, no.”

“Anthony. It has to be Anthony.”

“’Fraid not.”

 

~~~~~

 

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked.

“Miss what?” It was a stocking day again, and she was fixing tea while he counted the drawer. Despite appearances, Gold was meticulous with his finances.

“Being on a boat, out at sea.”

There was a pause. Gold frowned, letting this sink in. “More gossip, dear? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re beginning to make this a habit.”

“I have to learn about you somehow,” she huffed. “Especially since you seem so disinclined to tell me anything.”

“You don’t want to know me,” he grumbled, stacking the bills.

“Yes, I do.” Belle insisted, turning around with her hands on her hips. “Do you?” she pressed. “Miss it, I mean,”

Gold quietly wrote down the figures. She was digging again. He tried to keep all the reasons this should annoy him in the forefront of his mind. “Sometimes,” he said finally.

“Only sometimes?”

He gave her a look that, far from discouraging her, only made her laugh.

“I’d miss it, I think,” Belle admitted around her smile. “I’d miss the freedom of it, the adventure.”

“The great wide somewhere,” he muttered under his breath.

Belle smiled wider, delighted. “Exactly.”

“It’s not like that,” Gold said rolling his eyes. It was a common enough thing with the rookies, them signing on to work a voyage all bright-eyed and enthusiastic. They expected time out on the open ship, being able to gaze at the sea or the sky thoughtfully, maybe scribble some profound thought in a journal they kept tucked away in their breast pocket. Hell, even he had such inhibitions the first time he went out.

“What’s it like then?” Belle asked.

He snorted. “It’s a job, for one, just like any other – tedious and exhausting. If you’re not in the engine room with the machinery and fumes, than you’re in the navigation bay, making sure the entire ship doesn’t crash into anything or get off course, or in the hold having to lift heavy cargo from one place to the next. After the first couple weeks, the food tastes the same and everyone’s tired of everyone else’s company. After the first couple months, the food’s gone stale and you start to miss peace and quiet and solid ground beneath your feet.”

He didn’t mention the little boy he always missed within minutes of shoving off, without fail. He didn’t mention how he never missed his son’s mother quite the same way.

“No wonder you opened up this place,” Belle mused, “If being a sailor was that much fun.” She poured the hot water over the tea bags, and then gave Gold his mug. “I suppose when you put it like that, being a grumpy, unpleasant bartender is preferable.” 

“Yeah,” he agreed, a hallow edge creeping into his voice.

She frowned, noticing.

“Why _did_ you open this place?” She asked. 

“Had an accident out on a job,” he said reluctantly, motioning to his ankle. Gold had been on deck when a storm took them suddenly; it was a smaller boat for a smaller job, and not one that was made for rough seas. A large wave hit, throwing everything and everyone to port, and Gold just happened to be the unlucky bastard that couldn’t skirt out of the way fast enough. His ankle had been crushed, and even with the help of a cane, he couldn’t entirely get his sea legs under him.

Not that it mattered. He wasn’t much use aboard a vessel after that. He was a hazard, and no captain worth his salt would hire a cripple. “I had to earn a living somehow. And I thought it’d be nice being around for a change.”

“For your wife?” Belle asked innocently.

“Aye,” he sighed heavily. “Her and my son.”

“You have a son?”

His fists clenched. He didn’t look away from the papers that scattered the table. “I had a son,” his voice strained, high. “I lost him."

He saw movement from the corner of his eye. Belle took a seat in the empty chair to his right and curled her hand around his. She didn’t let go, and he didn’t pull away. If her eyes lingered on him longer than was necessary, neither one of them said anything about it.

The silence hung there, though. It itched under Gold’s skin. His breath quickened.

“It was to make room for my boy,” he blurted. 

Belle frowned, but didn’t let go of his hand. In fact, she held on tighter, the pressure anchoring him. “Room?” 

“The kitchen,” he clarified, “was moved from upstairs so a second bedroom could be made up. There wasn’t space for both, and I wanted him close.”

Belle nodded. Of course she understood. “What happened to him?”

“I lost him,” his throat was tight. “There’s nothing else to say.”

Belle nodded, and he was grateful when she didn’t say anything more. He knew she wanted to. Knew she wanted to ask just what had happened, just how his sweet, brilliant boy…

She’d have loved Bae. Bae would have loved Belle, too. He knew it in his bones, in every ache in his old useless body, the way he knew a storm was coming.

Gold said nothing. Belle kept hold of his hand, weaving their fingers together, and they sat there in silence.

 

~~~~~

 

She was washing the plates from their late lunch, her back to him, her hands submerged in the warm water in the sink. He was leaning against the wall, having paused from his task to watch her. His eyes, though, were drawn to the line of her neck, to the smile he could make out in profile when she turned to say something. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and happy.

That was it, though, wasn’t it? She looked happy and home and he felt a burning deep in his chest. He wanted this, wanted Belle’s forearms covered in suds and her laughing while he teased her. He wanted her to stay forever, and he wanted Belle to want to stay with him.

No one ever had before. His father hadn’t. Milah hadn’t. His son…

Why would she? Why would someone like Belle, sweet, brilliant Belle, ever want to stay with the likes of him?

“Why are you here?” Gold’s voice sounded scratchy and he tried to clear his throat.

She looked over his shoulder, and must have seen something in his face. “I never developed a taste for Grannie’s lasagna,” she said, shrugging.

He didn’t take the bait. “Why are you here, Belle?”

She pulled her hands from the water, flicking off the soap before reaching for a dishcloth. Slowly, she dried the plates and silverware.

“Because I want to be,” she said as she turned to face him.

“Why do you care?” He pretended he didn’t see the flash of hurt he saw dance across her face.

“Who else is going to?”

“That’s not a reason.” 

“It is for me. I don’t want to be alone. I know you don’t either.” Her fingers were warm against the back of his hand when she reached for him. “Why did you offer me this job?”

“Because my bloody ankle hurt,” he snarled, slapping her away.

“Because you were lonely,” she said softly. “I’m lonely, too, Gold. I want to be close to you. Why won’t you let me?”

“No, you don’t! Everyone I’ve ever known has walked out on me – what makes you any different?”

“Because I love you!” she shouted angrily.

Silence hung there, thick and sharp.

“No. You don’t.”

“I love you,” she said, softer now.

There was a little niggling voice in the deepest, blackest part of this heart that hoped that maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she did love him, if not as deeply as he loved her, then at least a little. But what could he offer her? All he had was a sad little bar off the coast of a no-name town in Maine. Gold had failed his father, his wife, even his little boy. He’d sooner cripple his other leg than add Belle to that list.

“What exactly is it that you want from me?” he shouted, baring his teeth.

“I don’t want anything from you.” She reached out a hand and placed it on his forearm.

He shook her off roughly. “Everyone wants something." 

“Please, would you just listen to me?” Belle tried reaching for him again.

He was quicker though, and grabbed her by her arms. He pushed her back, hard. She tripped over a chair, arms flying as she crashed to the floor, the chair unbalancing next to her.

There was silence as she looked up at him (heavy and cold, bitter on his tongue). There was pain in her eyes; there was hurt and confusion and sadness.

“Get out.” Gold curled his hands into fists at his side. He stood straight, towering over her.

He watched, mesmerized, as indignation stole over Belle’s lovely features. He saw anger, not pain, turn her cheeks a rosy red and make her eyes glisten.

“ _Get out,”_ he roared.

With all the grace of a queen, Belle pulled herself from his floor. “You _will not_ treat me like this,” she said, “especially when I have done _nothing_. If this is your choice, _Mister_ Gold, so be it.”

Her voice didn't waiver. Her spine didn't bend. She walked out of his bar without another word or a glance back.

The urge to break something was crawling in his skin. He wanted to smash all the gleaming glass bottles on the shelves, wanted to slam his cane against the bar until one or the other was reduced to a pile of splinters. He wanted to swallow down what alcohol he hadn't destroyed so he could drown out the feeling (that nagging, traitorous voice) that was screaming that he had made a horrible, horrible mistake.

So he did.

 

~~~~~  


 

The day was bleary when it dawned. Sunlight couldn’t make it through the crack in his blinds because it was covered by clouds, which he was thankful for.

Somehow, Gold had made it upstairs and into his dusty room. He clenched the lank covers while he tried to decide which hurt more: his head or his ankle.

In the middle of trying to think of the best way to smother himself with his pillow, he heard movement from down below. Gold frowned. Someone was in his bar. Maybe that was what had woken him. 

He turned over, trying to ignore the pain in his head long enough to grab his cane. Only his cane wasn’t there.

That’s right. His cane was currently somewhere in the debris downstairs, he remembered, probably cracked and bent and beyond use.

He laid down again, listening to the intruder. It couldn’t be anybody else but that woman. He closed his eyes. Screw his head and his ankle; his whole body hurt.

Gold didn’t know how long he slept when he woke up again, only that it was much quieter. Maybe that meant she left. But no, there was the scrape of a chair being righted, the sound of it scooting across the floor.

In the end, whether she was gone or not was unfortunately irrelevant. His headache had only gotten worse and his pain pills were in his kitchen. Best to deal with her now, then. 

Belle was indeed setting up the tables when he finally dragged himself downstairs. He watched her for only a moment, her smooth movement as she picked one chair off the floor, than another. Gold can see that she had already swept up the glass and mopped the alcohol that had pooled on the floor. The smell of spirits lingered and mixed with the haze of whatever cleaning products she used. It made the throbbing against his skull hurt even more.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He snarled. The discovery of her here, as if she were still welcome, paired with his hangover made him want to rip his bar to pieces. He would have gladly set the splinters on fire if he never had to look at her ever again.

“You’re out of cola again,” Belle said without turning around. “You’ll have to order more of it in time for your next delivery if you– “

“Get out.”

The chair Belle was pulling off the table slammed into the floorboards, the sharp sound of the wooden legs hitting the wooden floor causing Gold to wince internally.

She turned on him then, defiant. “No.”

“I told you yesterday– “

“I know what you told me, you stupid man.”

“I didn’t ask you to come back.” He was going to start yelling again. The damned woman in front of him would surely yell right back. “Get out,” he repeated louder.

“First tell me why,” she demanded, and he could see the first making of tears in her lovely eyes amidst all her fury. “Tell me why you won’t believe me.”

“What’s there to believe, dearie?”

Belle slammed her hand hard on the table. Gold had never seen her so angry before. “I _love you_ , you idiot.”

“No, you don’t,” he glared at her, wanting nothing more than for the lying siren to just leave. He wondered if he would have to throw her out himself. He wondered if he could. 

She barked a laugh that held no trace of humor. “What do you want me to say? How can I possibly convince you?” Belle asked hopelessly as she took a tentative step closer to him. “I love you,” she said, her voice softening, and suddenly all the anger drained from her body, leaving only desperation and sadness and something else Gold refused to put a name to. “It’s okay if you don’t love me. I’ll go if that’s what you want, and I won’t come back this time. But,” she looked him in the eye, her clear blue ones pouring into his hard, muddy brown. “I won’t leave until I’ve somehow convinced you. I love you.”

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at her. He couldn't bear the honesty in her eyes, the deep pooling tenderness that was directed at him. It wasn't real. It couldn’t be.

He felt the faintest touch of her hand grazing his. His eyes flew open, and he wrenched his hand away as if burned, telling himself he imagined her flinch.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please.”

He hated that she was begging. He hated that that was what he’d reduced her to.

When she reached for his hand again, he didn’t pull away.

“I love you,” she said as she twined their fingers together.

“I don’t believe you.” His hand was limp in hers (but he didn’t pull away).

“I love you.”

“You don’t,” His hand was limp (and she didn’t let him go).

She brought their clasped fingers to her lips and kissed his knuckles lightly. “I love you,” she breathed across his skin. She turned his hand over, placed a light kiss on his palm. “I love you.” Belle moved to the inside of his wrist, and kissed him there, too. “I love you.” She cupped her face with his hand, holding his cold clammy skin against her cheek. “I love you.”

His traitorous thumb caressed her softly and she leaned into his tentative touch. His mouth had gone dry, and it took every ounce of effort he possessed to croak, “You can’t.” His hands were shaking. His whole body was vibrating with the sheer amount of effort it took for him to not run away like the coward he was.

Belle stepped closer. His brave Belle. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I can. I do,” she said into his neck. He shivered as she ran her lips against his skin, up, up, up, until they were pressed so very lightly against the shell of his ear. “I love you so much, Gold.”

“You don’t.” To his humiliation, it came out a sob. Suddenly, of their own accord, Gold’s arms wrapped around Belle and pulled her to him. One hand buried itself in her hair, the other clung to her lower back. He was hanging on her like a coat, like that ridiculous apron she forced him to buy, and he was burning up in her grip but he refused to let go.

Belle was crying now. He felt her tears on his neck and against his shoulder. He would bet that she felt his, too.

“I love you,” she hiccupped. “So much. Oh god, please believe me.” Her hands clenched in the fabric of his dirty shirt, her arms tightened around him, pulling him close enough that he felt her heart beating through his own chest.

They hold each other for a long time, neither loosening their bruising holds. Gold’s face was buried in her hair, breathing her in (she smelled like sunshine. Sunshine and tea and the roses she always loved).

It started to rain, and still they stood there. He could hear the fat drops as they pound the roof, a delicate _tink, tink, tink_. He lifted his head, pressed a kiss to her hair as she burrows into his chest. Gold looked out the window and watched the water fall down the glass. His hand stroked her hair softly, running the soft waves through his fingers.

He didn’t know if it was minutes or hours later when he broke the spell. “Percival,” he mumbled.

Belle stirred in his arms. “Hmm?”

“My name. Percival.”

She pulled back so she can look at his face. He almost expected her to laugh.

She didn't. Instead, she smiled her dazzling smile, eyes shining (and still red from crying but she was as beautiful as the night he first met her, as any woman he’d ever seen). “I love you, Percival Gold,” she said before her lips crashed against his.

He kissed her back with every amount of _everything_ he had.

“Yes, and I love you, too.”

 

~~~~~

 

Bright sunlight that peeks through the shade, waking her up. The first thing she feels is a stickiness between her legs and the pleasant ache that accompanies it. His breath stirs the back of her neck where his face rests in her hair, his arm slung over her waist. Gold’s arm.

Percival’s. 

Belle smiles, warm and content. She turns over in his arms and places kisses across his chest, up to his neck. He hums low in his chest as his arms tighten around her.

She could get used to this; strong arms and a heartbeat wrapped around her when she wakes up.

Her father was right; all she needed was salt water. Her eyes close when she finds his lips, hungry for him despite the way the morning tastes on their tongues.

She’s found her sea.


End file.
